Bittersweet (21 page)

“You’re not helping me, Edda.”

“No one else can help, idiot!
Go out with him!
Until you do, you’re relying on other people’s judgements,” Edda said.

“She’s right,” said Tufts. “
Go out with him!
”

Since Corunda was already buzzing over Dr. Burdum’s taking Edda Latimer out for drinks and dinner, the sensation was electric when he took Kitty Latimer out for drinks and dinner. Did he intend to set the sisters up as competitors for his hand in marriage, or did he have more nefarious motives? “Charles” had gone by the wayside to everyone in the district; his name was now the slightly raffish “Charlie” and his image correspondingly reduced.

Kitty, Charles noticed, dressed differently from Edda, though both of them had turned heads when crossing the Grand’s lounge to him. Kitty’s style was fluffier — no sleek satins or metallic fabrics for Kitty, he concluded. Her chiffon dress was icy green in colour, cunningly picked out with details in a darker emerald, and her kid accessories were navy-blue; she wore no hat of any kind, the brilliantly flaxen curls cut short in a halo around that bewitching face. By the end of the evening Charles judged Kitty her own arbiter of fashion, and wondered where the Latimer girls got their dress sense, for Corunda definitely had none.

“Why are you the salty one?” he asked over beers.

“The face,” she said promptly. “I look as if butter would never melt in my mouth, so being salty takes people aback. I learned that early, and have never wished to unlearn it.”

“I hope you’re not going to force me to a long courtship.”

“I hope you don’t intend a courtship at all, Charlie.”

“Of course I do!” The gargoyle became the film star. “I have already told you how this must end — you as my wife.”

“What precisely gives you that idea? And don’t answer — love — because that sort of instantaneous love is lust,” said Kitty,
relishing her pilsener beer. “Using the word in its proper sense, there are only four people in the world whom I love.”

“And they are?”

“My three sisters and my father.”

“What about your mother?”

The perfect nose wrinkled. “I
love
my mother, but I wouldn’t step in front of her to take the bullet aimed at her.”

“Why is that, Kitty?”

The large eyes widened even more, giving them a look of wary and startled surprise. Then she laughed, a peal of amusement so infectious that those around them who heard it involuntarily smiled. “Idiot! Because she wouldn’t take the bullet meant for me. It’s a two-way street, Charlie.”

He winced. “Must I be Charlie, even to you?”

“Definitely. It turns you from a ponce into a man.”

He swallowed. “I take it that a Charles would never step in front of you to take the bullet?”

“He’d be too busy diving for shelter.”

“Whereas a Charlie might face the gunman?”

“He might.”

Time to change the subject. “I wish,” he said, eyes gone quite gold, “that this benighted town had a decent restaurant! And why the Parthenon over the Olympus, since they’re identical twins in all respects from Greekness to decor to menus?”

“Custom. Meaning not tradition, but patrons. The Olympus is closer to the Sydney–Melbourne road, and takes travellers as well as tourists. Haven’t you noticed Corunda’s tourists? It’s
September, at the height of the spring flowering. The town is famous for its old world gardens. People flock here to see the azaleas and rhododendrons especially.”

“But they bloom consecutively, not together.”

“Here, due to some local climatic and soil peculiarities, they bloom together for twice as long. This is the peak week for synchronous flowering. After all, the world
is
upside-down.”

“I was wondering why the hotel is so jam-packed,” he said, face brightening. “Perhaps I can persuade the Grand to install a first-class restaurant.”

“Concentrate on the hospital” was her advice. “You’ve moved into Burdum House now, so find yourself a chef who suits you. Then you can have poached whosits and braised whatsits as you wish.”

Horror was written large on his face. “I can’t entertain without a hostess!” he said blankly.

“Of course you can! As long as you have the staff to make sure things go smoothly, no one will find it odd. Posh Pommy punctiliousness isn’t practised here, so the women needn’t leave the men alone over their port and cigars. It’s more common for the whole table to withdraw together — if there
is
any withdrawing. People here rather like to finish the evening still around the dining table.” She gave another of those infectious laughs. “Different places, different customs.”

“A man entertaining without a hostess,” he said slowly.

“Perfectly permissible in Corunda, though I daresay the Governor-General might object.”

He insisted upon returning her to her door at the end of the evening, no matter who saw them on the ramps, but though he took her hand and held it, he didn’t try to kiss her.

“You’ll be Mrs. Charles Burdum before the winter of 1930,” he said in a low voice, shadows filling the cavities of his eyes so that she couldn’t see what they held, “but I’ll temper my ardour for the time being because I can see that you don’t trust me an inch. What it is to be a Pommy! Good night.”

T
he Corunda Base Hospital Board didn’t fare nearly as well at Dr. Burdum’s hands as did the nurses or the four new sisters, though by the time he convened it a week into September, its members knew they were in for a marathon session and might even be made to feel a trifle — well,
uncomfortable
. That it would turn out to be (metaphorically, at any rate) bloodier and more exhausting than the Anzac attack on Gallipoli during the Great War was not to be credited — until after it was over, that is.

Said the Reverend Thomas Latimer, still gasping, to his wife, “The man stripped us of every last vestige of pride, honour, public approbation and self-respect! Maude, we stood, shamefully and nakedly exposed, for all Corunda to see — the man insisted the meeting be thrown open to anyone who wanted to attend, so all the medical consultants Frank kept off the Board were there, old Tom Burdum was there —
Monsignor O’Flaherty was there!
”

As seventy-year-old Monsignor O’Flaherty of St. Anthony’s Catholic church always called the Hospital Board “Frank Campbell’s twelve weasels”, this last witness was bitterest of
all; Catholics might be poorer, but in Corunda they had the numbers.

The Board was entirely Frank Campbell’s creation, that was inarguably true, despite its charter clearly saying that the Mayor, the Town Clerk and the Church of England Rector must be members of it. If they commenced in a spirit of reform looking and sounding like lions, Frank hammered them into the properly flawless weasels he demanded. Had his daughters only known what went on at a Board meeting, they would have understood why Daddy was as big a weasel as the rest: no one defied Frank Campbell!

The only medical man it contained was Frank Campbell himself; then came the charter-stipulated Mayor, Town Clerk and Rector, and after them, eight men as thoroughly weasel by nature as conditioning. They were all proprietors of local businesses — butcher, baker, grocer, draper, ironmonger, blacksmith/garageman, produce merchant, and “the egg man”, who batteried a shed full of White Orpington hens plus one tired rooster. Weasel reward was exclusively supplying Corunda Base with low cost, low quality goods, from the draper’s sheets to the egg man’s oldest poultry products. No one made his fortune supplying the hospital, but all the vendors had found the cheapest source, and knew to the last towel or egg what amount Frank would buy.

Examination of the books had convinced Charles Burdum that he could do far better by the hospital’s funds than simply letting a bank use them, but it wasn’t that which imbued him with an urgent, powerful zeal to wrest control away from the Board. With Dr. Campbell dead, four million pounds
sat nakedly at the mercy of a rudderless bunch of weasels. At this moment they were still reeling from the shock of a death considered impossible; even God didn’t want Frank Campbell! But the shock would dissipate quickly from now on, and some bolder weasels be tempted to steal the funds. It wasn’t hard!

Therefore Charles had to take the money off the Board now, at once, before the weasels had even begun to think of rallying and joining together. The funds needed properly looking after, and that was not the duty of a board but of financial managers. No one on the old Board, including Frank Campbell, had honestly known what to do with four million pounds, which had simply sat in various savings banks earning pathetically low rates of interest.

What Charles intended to do was crying out to be done: invest the money in companies and institutions called “blue chip” — a way of saying that if such companies and institutions failed, the race of Man would be so blighted that even the wheel would have to be re-invented. Corunda Base’s money
must
be safe and must
earn
!

His primary task was obvious: to rebuild the hospital entirely, and equip it with the most modern diagnostic and maintenance apparatus, then staff it with the best people he could recruit. Despite the long traipses a shed/ramp design meant, it also meant no stairs, steps or elevator/lifts. For Charles had seen enough hospitals to have learned their greatest lesson: no matter what their design, there was always a huge amount of walking to do.

With all this and much else roiling inside his head, Charles went to battle against the Board, throwing the meeting open,
including to the
Corunda
Post
, a weekly newspaper not to be sneezed at, and the city’s consultant physicians and surgeons, not to mention Dr. Liam Finucan and Matron Newdigate. Among other mysterious trips to Sydney had been one that saw him take the Minister for Health out to dinner after a late afternoon discussion in the Minister’s parliamentary chambers. Thus Charles was empowered to fire the present Board and review the hospital’s charter; the Minister had been relative putty after he learned of Corunda Base’s wealth and was made to see that he couldn’t garnish its funds for his own department, in constant need of money. It did mean, however, that Corunda Base could be brought into being as a showcase hospital whose cost to the State would be minimal. A bargain was struck.

One other factor drove Charles to be quick about controlling the funds, but it wasn’t anything he could put his finger on; it was purely a feeling (shared by a few London colleagues) telling him that some financial evil was brewing world-wide. Its nature, he couldn’t for the life of him divine; but somewhere, in the tangled jungles of money markets and far too many investors, an unspeakable beast was grimly stalking anonymous prey — a shadow, a phantom — yet not, Charles was sure, a figment of his imagination. It was there and it was real, said some few colleagues too, which meant he had to have Corunda Base’s money safe in his care.

One metaphorical Gallipoli, and it was accomplished; faced with a knowledge of the financial world they couldn’t begin to rival, and understanding that, if necessary, Charles Burdum would take them through the courts all the way to the Privy
Council, the Board crumbled in disorder. Eleven weasels found themselves dismissed, and none, including the Rector, was reappointed. It turned out, in an odd way, to benefit Corunda businesses far above expectation, as Charles Burdum informed the locals that he would call for tenders in all matters relating to hospital supply, and that in future supplies would be of good quality rather than the sweepings off the floor. Local firms were encouraged to tender.

There would be no Religious whatsoever on the Board, nor any prejudice, let alone bigotry, against any person on grounds of race, creed or other. So, much to his astonishment, Bashir Maboud, who ran a general store in the Trelawneys, found himself the only retailer on the new Board, for all that he was a Catholic Lebanese; according to Charles, who (most undemocratically, in which he was just like Frank Campbell) chose the Board members, Bashir was an Australian by right of birth and education, and as a general storekeeper knew a great deal about the people of ordinary Corunda.

Dr. Erich Herzen, Dr. Ian Gordon, Dr. Dennis Faraday and Dr. Ned Mason, all town medical practitioners, now joined the Board, as did Dr. Liam Finucan and Matron Gertrude Newdigate. The manager of the local branch of the Great Western Stores, the president of the Corunda Pastoralists’ Society, the most senior among the stock-and-station agents, and the head of the Corunda Historical Society formed the non-medical minority, from which it might be deduced that no one on the Board would give the Chairman of the Board, Dr. Charles Burdum, any arguments about how to manage hospital moneys.
Totalling twelve members, it was an absolutely local affair whose membership would be reviewed as necessary, at the Chairman’s say-so.

The formalities that handed Corunda Base’s funds over to this new Board were completed early in October of 1929; Charles Burdum sat back with a sigh of profound relief. The four million was now invested shrewdly, but with extreme conservatism, at the sole dictate of the Chairman, who retained all financial powers. Of his reasons or his reservations he spoke not one word, nor was his wisdom queried; Charles didn’t ride roughshod over other opinions; such was not his way. Instead, he explained every decision he made in minute detail, and encouraged a healthy debate he wasn’t usually offered. Trust and knowledge said he was right. Paid no membership fees, the new Board received its charter halfway through October.

In mid-October, Charles held a dinner for the medical men, Matron Newdigate and Bashir Maboud, though no spouses were asked. He hired a room of suitable size at the Grand Hotel, but had the meal catered by a firm from Sydney; only the size of the fee reconciled the Grand Hotel to this insult, but as its manager was a pragmatist, he had to admit his own cooks couldn’t hope to emulate the menu: Beluga caviar, a sorbet, poached flounder, and a pinkish Chateaubriand with the sauce of the same name that takes three days to make. Since it was high spring, the dessert was perfectly ripe strawberries, lightly whipped cream optional.

He broached the subject over the aperitif drinks, knowing it would carry them through all the leisurely courses and beyond to after-dinner drinks and coffee. As always Gertie Newdigate
thrived on being the only woman, too wise to thrust her sex under a man’s nose, but enjoying the chance to wear lipstick and a dress that didn’t creak from starch. Liam knew what was in the wind, no one else; they sat in comfortable chairs, eyes fixed on, Charles.

“We’re going to rebuild the hospital,” he said, “and this dinner is my way of introducing all of you to what will be a great undertaking beneath the Board’s shield. Understand, however, that it will be a gradual process, not begun next week, perhaps even not next year. I’m bringing all of you in so early because I don’t want an architect’s idea of a hospital, I want a doctor’s. Bashir, you’re here because you represent a patient’s idea of the hospital. Is everybody with me?”

The exchanged glances and murmurs were joyous; every pair of eyes was shining.

“On the surface it won’t be much different — long, single-storeyed buildings with verandahs so a patient’s bed can be wheeled out for some sun, or fresh air, or a look at the gardens — joined by ramps that will be completely covered in. The site is level, and we’ll always adhere to the rule of no steps. When the level does change, the ramp will slope gently over a long distance. Yes, it means those irritating trudges, but it’s healthy and I’m going to have little open cars powered by batteries for those who need transporting, including visitors.” He caught Liam’s eye. “Liam?”

“Wooden on stone piers, Charlie?”

“No, brick on whatever foundations are to hand — we won’t waste the limestone blocks. I want cavity-brick construction to make it easier to heat in winter and cool in summer, so the roofs
will be terra-cotta tiles insulated with tar paper and good, well-ventilated attics. Unfortunately the nurses’ home is already on its way to completion, but at least Frank Campbell put it at the back of the grounds, and we’ll do what we can with it later.”

He spied the head waiter standing in the doorway, a signal that dinner was being served, and helped Matron from her chair. “We can continue in our little dining room,” he said, leading the way, the rest trooping behind.

“The important thing,” he said a long time later, over cognac or liqueurs, coffee or tea, “is to understand that as the building goes on, the hospital continues to function. Which means that it will all take place over time, and that should conserve our assets. Where possible, we’ll fund from interest rather than from capital. We shouldn’t forget either that we have State moneys as a public hospital, and I see from the hospital’s books that Frank Campbell was a ruthless collector of debt. The Almoner had a hard fight to get an impoverished patient cleared of his debts. That, candidly, is a disgrace. Were it not for the efforts of Corunda’s churches and private charities, people here would have been denied what I consider a basic right — hospital care. Oh, don’t think it doesn’t happen in Great Britain! It does.”

Listening, Liam Finucan sat grinning from ear to ear. Well done, Charlie! They were all with him, Bashir Maboud most of all.

At midnight, returning to the cottage on hospital grounds he now called home, Liam found Tufts waiting, eager to hear what had gone on, and determined that he wasn’t going to escape without today’s ration of having his hair brushed.

“How did you know a cuppa was what I needed to settle my belly after so much rich food?” he asked, blowing on his tea, which he took without milk or sugar, and very strong.

“What was the menu?”

“Russian caviar, bland fish, an incredibly delicious filet of beef with a tarragonny sauce, and strawberries.”

“My heart bleeds for you,” she said, attacking his black hair. “I ate hospital shepherd’s pie with watery cabbage.”

“Get away with you, Heather, you know Charlie’s doing wonders for this place. It was brilliant to drop the news about the new hospital on the medical segment of his Board over a dinner that must have cost him a fortune. St. Patrick and the snakes, how they did enjoy it! I thought Gertie was going to swoon over the beef.”

“Bully for Charlie,” Tufts said, brushing hard. Liam grabbed at the brush. “No more, Heather, please! My scalp must be lacerated.”

“Sook! Your scalp is perfect. What revived Gertie?”

“The strawberries. I do believe she’d die for Charlie. In fact, he has what I believe is called a fan club.”

“Yes, he has a fan club.” She sighed. “I just wish my silly sister would either join it wholeheartedly, or cut him dead. Her vacillations are driving the rest of us around the bend.”

“Luckily she’s your problem, not mine.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Now the skin’s stopped smarting, I must admit it’s wonderful not to be blinded by hair.”

“I rejoice for you, you stubborn old Ulsterman.”

The door opened on a knock and Dr. Ned Mason walked in. “I knew I could smell a pot of tea! Tufts, delight of my heart,
does Liam have another cup to spare for a glutted and slightly nauseated old obstetrician?”

It appeared on the desk in front of him as he sat down. “I had a feeling Tufts would be brewing you a pot of tea. Why do you always call her Heather?”